


Christmas at Baker Street

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 2018 advent ficlet challenge, 221B Ficlet, Christmas, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: For the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge: one 221b ficlet per day until Christmas, following the prompts assembled by MissDavisWrites. Betaed when time allows by 221bJen.





	1. Holiday Decor

Sherlock had passed by the flower shop in the train station for years without ever venturing inside. No reason to, really. But it had been raining for days, the sky constantly marbled with clouds, and even the light from the skylights seemed grey. Against that dismal backdrop, the outrageous reds of the poinsettias and roses were irresistible. He stepped through the doorway.

“Can I help you, sir?” The clerk gave Sherlock a welcoming smile. “We’ve some lovely paperwhites, if you…”

Sherlock immediately felt wrong-footed. “No, thank you. I was just…” He waved at the flowers. “Looking. Browsing.”

“Very good, sir. Enjoy.”

Sherlock nodded, turning back to the vivid display. Almost Christmas, he thought with disbelief. It had been a hectic year, but still almost too quiet for comfort. John, stubbornly, was still living across town. Rosie had started nursery school, and Sherlock…

…was  _ lonely. _ He frowned at the sudden realisation.

“Ah, you’ve found the wreaths,” the man said behind him. Sherlock blinked. “Exquisite, aren’t they? Quite fresh. No home is merry without one.”

The man’s practiced patter caught Sherlock’s ear.  _ Home, _ he thought, as an idea took shape in his mind.

Christmas was the season for miracles, after all.

“Of course,” he said, with a genuine smile. “I’ll have one. And if you have ribbon, I’d like a big, red bow.”

\---


	2. Star

Sherlock hadn’t asked for Mycroft’s help in years. He wasn’t even asking now; he was just standing there on the marble stoop, awkward and rather…shy. “Grandmere’s ornaments,” he finally managed, carefully not meeting Mycroft’s eye. “You’ve still got them, don’t you?”

Mycroft blinked. “In the basement, I think,” he answered slowly, standing back to let Sherlock enter. “You know the way.”

The kettle boiled as Mycroft listened to the rustling downstairs. He considered offering to help, but he sensed this was personal, somehow. (Besides, he rather despised spiders. He shuddered, and the teacup rattled on the saucer.)

Finally, Sherlock emerged from below, one hand brushing dirt from his trousers. In the other, he held a small paper bag.

Mycroft sniffed and handed him a tea towel. “Find what you needed?”

Sherlock nodded. “Just a few old baubles,” he said, failing to sound casual. “The felt animals, and the crystal star. You don’t mind, do you? Only I thought I’d try a tree this year.”

This was unexpected. “You…generally avoid these things,” Mycroft said carefully. “Why now?” But even as he asked, the answer came to him—Rosie, of course.

Rosie, and John. Sherlock’s blush warmed Mycroft’s tired heart.

He turned to set his teacup down. “The crystal star is quite fragile, little brother,” he said softly. “I’ll find you a box.”

\---


	3. You Better Watch Out

Mrs Hudson stood on the front steps, keys in hand, head tilted thoughtfully to the side. There was a wreath—a _Christmas_ wreath--on her door, but she hadn’t been the one to hang it.

Inside, she was surprised by the suggestion of pine in the air. Fairy lights had been wrapped around the banister leading to the upstairs landing, and distantly, she heard a faint echo of carols. _Santa Claus was coming to town,_ apparently. _You better watch out._

This required investigation.

She crept up the stairs and peeked around the corner. A brightly lit tree had been situated in front of the windows. Boxes of ornaments and literally dozens of candy canes were scattered about, while a length of silver garland stretched across the sofa. A small box lay half open on the table nearby, and she caught a glimpse of sparkly glass: a star, maybe an angel. Sherlock was going to a lot of trouble, but why…

She looked over to the fireplace. Four stockings were hung from the mantelpiece, each embroidered in red: S, R, J, and, finally, Mrs H.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered, tears tickling her eyes.

A family, at last.

She turned to sneak back down the stairs, her heart singing. He’d be trimming that tree for hours, she knew. He’d need tea. And biscuits.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sincewhen_John and Scudery for their astute consultations.


	4. Snowman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed. All my fault. I will take a minute, though, to remind you of the most important rule of 221bs: if it says 221 words on Microsoft Word, then it's 221 words, by god.

John’s look of horror made Greg’s stomach sink.

“What?”

“Greg, seriously. Who told you this movie was good? Because it’s…not.”

Greg sighed. “My ex.”

John turned to him, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Well, why the hell would she lie?” Greg sputtered. “Anyway, it has that guy. Michael Whatever.”

“Fassbender.” John picked up the DVD case. “’Detective Harry Hole investigates the disappearance of a woman whose scarf is found wrapped around an ominous-looking snowman.’ Jesus.”

“Yeah, okay.” Greg handed John a beer. “She got me.”

John grinned. “Look, it tied for the St Louis Film Critics Association’s worst movie in 2017.”

“Fine, _she got me._ For Christ’s sake, turn it off.”

“With pleasure.” John sipped his beer. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Working.”

“Ugh. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Greg laughed. “Gets me off New Year’s. Less nudity at Christmas. You?”

“Nothing exciting. Taking Rosie to Sherlock’s.”

“His parents’ house? Nice.”

“No, he wants to have Christmas at Baker Street this year.”

Greg looked over at him sharply. “With a tree and everything?”

“I assume so. We’ve done it before, you know. Irene Adler.”

“I remember.” Greg scowled down at his bottle. “He’s… changed a lot since then.”

“Maybe. It’s been a long time.”

“Long time,” Greg echoed, wondering if John had really noticed. He washed away his frown with a drink of beer.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This movie exists, by the way. "The Snowman," starring Michael Fassbender, a universally panned Norwegian thriller with a Rotten Tomatoes score of 8% that will soon be available for viewing on HBO. It was based on a 2007 Norwegian best selling crime novel and is, by all accounts, something of a mess.


	5. Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, sorry. *Double checks for eventual happy ending tag*
> 
> Unbetaed. I'm the only one to blame.

He’d believed once.

Long ago, John had believed that something was growing between them, precious, fragile, deeper than friendship. He’d believed that the glances, the smiles, the lingering touches spoke to a truth that would someday demand to make itself known. He’d believed that they’d stood together to fight thieves and murderers and bloody fucking monsters, not for London or justice, but for each other. He’d thought they’d had a secret.

He’d believed they’d been in love.

Well. John always _had_ been gullible. Girlfriends called it charming as they tripped off to kiss another boy. Army mates giggled about it as they slipped the fake scorpion into his boot. It was fine, though, because he didn’t want to lose that part that always saw good. That somehow always _believed._

The part that suffered a mortal wound, not in distant deserts, but in a London bedsit.

The part that went on life support one rainy afternoon outside Bart’s Hospital.

The part that burned to ash as his wife shot a hole through a coin.

So now? To imagine new light in silver eyes, to wonder if smiles meant something more, to dream of being pulled to the side, to the heart, to the lips of a man who’d long been the oxygen he needed to survive?

John knew better than to believe.

\---


	6. Fireplace

“…appliances, and a spacious kitchen. There’s a garden out back for the little one, and…”

“Rosie.”

“Pardon?”

The buyer cleared his throat. “My daughter. The little one. Her name is Rosie.”

Charlotte simpered. “Charming. So, a garden for _Rosie_. The schools are…”

Charlotte had been a realtor long enough to know when someone was listening, and this buyer definitely was not. He _was_ standing in the lounge, staring at a blank wall.

“Sir?” She frowned, perplexed. “Is something wrong?”

“What? Oh. Well…” The buyer motioned around the room. “No fireplace.”

Charlotte blinked. “No, central heating. Quite efficient.” She motioned toward the hallway, where the furnace stood in a small closet. “If you’d like, I could…”

“That won’t be necessary.” The buyer gave her a tight smile. “Bedrooms?”

"Upstairs." She smiled back, hiding her gritted teeth. “Right this way.”

It was always something with this one. He’d filled out the questionnaire—two bedrooms, full bath, nothing unusual--and they’d seen some lovely places, but he’d had a complaint about each one. Too bright. Too big. Too quiet. Too far from the bloody tube station. And now, no fireplace.

She was at her wits’ end.

He followed her out to the car, not looking back, and she didn’t even have to ask. Next on the list, then. God save her from fussy buyers.

\---


	7. Memories

The wine shimmered in the lights from the Christmas tree. It was an excellent vintage, lush, fruit-forward, a young wine still light on the palate. Sherlock had always loved wines like this.

Grandmère had taught him well.

He’d been packed with university in his sights the first time she’d handed him a glass. _Santé!_ she’d toasted, clinking his glass with hers. He’d always remembered how that first sip had made him feel: worldly, sophisticated, adult. Mycroft had rolled his eyes, but Sherlock had hardly noticed, so preoccupied he’d been with the velvet taste on his tongue. 

At school, he’d learned the rest of it, how the second glass made him silly and the third one, loud. How if he drank enough, the voices in his head would stop their chatter and the pain in his chest would go numb. How he’d be able to sleep, without the dreams that made him whimper. How he’d feel like absolute shite in the morning and still think it had all been worth it.

Later he’d found stronger medicine, had risked his life for stillness, but he’d never lost his taste for wine.

He poured the last few drops into his glass. He was alone, and a hard rain was falling; a good night not to remember. A good night, actually, to open another bottle.


	8. Music

Mrs Hudson fiddled with the radio as the creak of the old rocker slowed and then stopped. Hushed footsteps followed a few minutes later. “Asleep at last,” John murmured, as he slipped into the chair across from her. “She has the sleeping habits of her godfather, I swear.” He reached for the teapot and nodded at the music. “Nice choice. I love Rolling Stones.”

Mrs Hudson smiled fondly. “I met them, you know.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “You met the Stones?”

“Mmm-hmm. Late 70s. We’d got passes to a show, me and a friend, and I’ll tell you, John.” Her eyes were sparkling. “It was _wild.”_

John was staring. “You met the Stones.”

“Snuck backstage.” She nodded. “The room was packed. We couldn’t see a way to get close to them, but the manager heard my accent and looked over, and Barbara was—” Mrs Hudson pantomimed large bosoms. “Next thing we knew, we were talking to the band.”

John grinned. “Jagger. Richards. You met the _Stones_.”

She snorted. “Richards? Stoned off his _arse._ But Jagger…well. The lips, and that skinny arse, and the smile…Barbara never stood a chance. I had a picture of us all, but the police took it. Later, you know. In Florida.”

“Ah. Sorry. But _damn._ You met the _Stones.”_

“I did.” She winked. “It was brilliant.”


End file.
